


Final Transmission

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Dex - Freeform, M/M, Mace Windu - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, Shmi Skywalker - Freeform, Slow Burn, Terrelinar (character from Re-Entry by flamethrower), anakin skywalker - Freeform, brief appearances by various characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Hello, Qui-Gon. If you are seeing this message, chances are… things haven’t gone very well for me.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69
Collections: QuiObi Secret Santa 2020





	Final Transmission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hefirka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hefirka/gifts).



> For Hefirka, who requested: I dream about romantic fic which describes Obiwan's apperenticeship and slow relationship development:)

Qui-Gon’s comm set pinged a plaintive alert. He just barely suppressed a groan and threw an arm over his eyes, and sighed instead. Less than twenty minutes ago he’d been released from the Healers’ clutches after a gruelling physical therapy session, and almost couldn’t summon the strength to move. _Luminous beings are we,_ he thought, _mired in this crude matter._

The comm set pinged again a minute later, but by then Qui-Gon was already prying himself off the couch. If it was another message from the Healers, he’d much rather deal with it now than put it off. It could be something about his upcoming evaluations. 

Qui-Gon had finally been scheduled for the field competence testing; not for another month, but _soon._ Though he wouldn’t willingly admit it (if pressed by Mind Healers for instance), he felt a sick thrill of anticipation. Like a fresh Knight, he was both elated and horribly nervous. In truth, some days—and especially after PT sessions—it felt like the field was the last place he belonged. At least for the first year, he would be assigned a partner to keep an eye on him. Qui-Gon tried not to see it as a weakness. 

Of course, that was especially difficult when he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to check his messages. Qui-Gon didn’t recognise the sender’s ident code, but if the Temple’s techs were as paranoid as they usually were, only another Jedi could have access to his inbox code anyway. 

There was a single attachment: a brief holorecording. Qui-Gon set it to play and rested his hip against the edge of the desk as he waited for the recording to load. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms in front of him, already going over his plans for the rest of the day. A shower, perhaps something to eat, a trip to the Archives to prepare for his next seminar… 

“Hello, Qui-Gon.”

It was not a message from the Healers. 

Qui-Gon hadn’t heard a word, nor caught even a glimpse of his Padawan—oh, it must have been over a year now since Obi-Wan had been assigned his first mission and moved out of these old quarters. Qui-Gon wasn’t sure what it said about him that his heart practically skipped a beat at the sight of the man, even like this, in a trick of shimmering blue light. 

Obi-Wan was smiling—though it was the wry half-grin that Qui-Gon had long since come to recognise as his ‘I told you I had a bad feeling about this’ expression. 

“Dex helped me set this up, so if you are seeing this message, chances are… things haven’t gone very well for me.”

Qui-Gon froze, then sat down, hard, on the too-low desk chair. That did his spine no favours, but he ignored the hard twinge. 

“I was generous with the dead man’s switch requirements, you know,” Obi-Wan added, with a soft laugh. “I suppose it could be terribly embarrassing if this turns out to be a false alarm, but if I’ve activated it in the first place—this might be the last you hear from me, I’m afraid.” 

Qui-Gon stared at the projection of his former Padawan. _Damn his efficiency,_ was all Qui-Gon could think at the moment. _Of course_ he would plan very carefully to make sure this message was never sent in error. _Of course._

“You imparted an important lesson to me on Naboo—one which, I’m ashamed to say, I didn’t learn quite fast enough: none of us have as much time as we think we do. And the more I see of the galaxy, the more I understand that the most precious thing we have is our friends, our family. So there’s no sense in putting off the things we want to say to each other until the very end. What’s done is done, of course, but while I still have a chance to rectify it… 

“First of all, I owe you an apology, my Master. I should have made more of an effort to come see you after they sent me out, and I deeply regret not having done so. I’m afraid I’ve been an altogether terrible former Padawan.”

“No,” Qui-Gon whispered, stunned, shaking his head minutely. 

“Second, stop arguing with me,” Obi-Wan teased— _the cheeky sod_ —“you know you always lose.” 

Qui-Gon laughed despite himself, and felt tears gather in his eyes. 

“And it’s rude, you can’t argue with me during my final moments.”

“Brat,” Qui-Gon scolded automatically. “Don’t you _dare._ ”

Obi-Wan simply smiled at him. 

“Lately I keep remembering our mission to that little Ag world—Asmeru, I think. That was one of our most peaceful assignments, almost like those survival training retreats. I keep remembering the mornings, when you’d wake me up to see the sunrise. I didn’t quite appreciate it then,” he admitted sheepishly, “but I loved the afternoons—those few warm days we had to ourselves. I remember watching you do katas on the riverbank. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, like dancing on sunbeams.

“Of course then I discovered that you’d been stringing me along all this time, pretending you couldn’t cook worth a damn.”

Qui-Gon snorted softly. 

He remembered those afternoons fondly, too. They’d reminded him of their early years together. He’d taught Obi-Wan to fish and track, to get his bearings in unfamiliar forests; on Asmeru he watched his Padawan apply those lessons with ease. And at the same time, Obi-Wan debated complex philosophy and theory with him in the evenings while they stretched out on the sunwarmed rocks. 

It had filled Qui-Gon with pride and joy to see the young man Obi-Wan had grown into, the Knight he would become. Pride, and joy, and a deeper feeling Qui-Gon did not dare put name to.

“I miss those days. I miss watching you dance. And, I find, I miss working with you more than I realised I would. I miss _you,_ terribly. 

“I love you.”

Qui-Gon stared at the tiny hologram, wondering if he’d really heard… that. 

Obi-Wan seemed equally surprised he’d said it, but then he shook his head and smiled wryly. “You know, that must be one of the worst things to hear in someone else’s farewell recording. I suppose I should have told you sooner, or maybe not mentioned it at all, but I can’t take that with me into the Force. Now more than ever I regret that I never took the chance, that you might—”

Obi-Wan bit his lip, and sat silently worrying it with his teeth for a beat. 

"I would have loved you all my life, and I'll still love you, even after I'm gone."

Qui-Gon sat back, stunned. First an apology for being absent in the last year—“a terrible former Padawan,” he’d said—and now… 

Well, he supposed, it was an understandable reason to avoid one’s old Master. If an utterly heartbreaking one. 

“The life of a Jedi is a dangerous one,” the recording went on, “but I’m ashamed to say that as soon as I realised this place was a bomb with a faulty timer, I just wanted to run right back to you. 

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, glancing up, blue eyes boring right through the holorecorder, and, lightyears away, into one tired old Jedi Master’s quailing heart. “I never meant to leave you this way. Please, tell Ani I’m sorry, too.” 

The holorecording ended there. 

Qui-Gon tapped the screen quickly and paused the recording before it blinked out. For a moment he simply stared at the image of Obi-Wan—his former Padawan, his brilliant Knight; took in the changes he never got to see in person. Obi-Wan’s hair had grown long enough to brush his shoulders; his cheeks had thinned a bit, possibly from the strain of several back-to-back missions. 

Qui-Gon cleared his throat and picked up his comm, automatically punching in Mace’s code. 

“Windu here.” 

“Where the hell is he?” Qui-Gon growled. 

“What? What happened?” 

“You’d better call any back-up you have in that system and send them to _find out,_ because my Padawan just sent me a final goodbye, Mace.” 

Qui-Gon didn’t wait for an acknowledgement. He dropped his comm and called up the mission rosters. 

* * *

_It was strange to see Obi-Wan without the braid. Strange, but it filled Qui-Gon with a warm rush of pride. It only worried him that his Padawan-turned-Knight was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Obi-Wan wasn’t sleeping, and Anakin said he didn’t eat very much when Obi-Wan took him to the commissary._

_Now Obi-Wan was sitting at his bedside in the Halls of Healing, absently rubbing the space between thumb and forefinger._

_“What’s wrong?” Qui-Gon asked him._

_Obi-Wan glanced up, his expression bleak. “They’re assigning me a mission.”_

_Qui-Gon’s heart sank, even though this was hardly unexpected. “They think you’re ready. When?”_

_Obi-Wan’s eyebrows drew together in a deep frown. “Tomorrow morning. It’s—House Organa and House Antilles are negotiating a marriage contract, including delegating duties for various public services. I suppose really I’m there to oversee a peaceful transition of power.”_

_Qui-Gon smiled. “Alderaan is a good place to see what is possible when things go_ right. _Every Jedi should get the chance to witness that at least once.”_

_Obi-Wan huffed. “One can only hope. Master—Qui-Gon. I wanted to…”_

_Qui-Gon eyed him, curious. This nervousness was uncharacteristic of his former Padawan. “Obi-Wan?”_

_Obi-Wan bit his lip. “Just… it’s nothing. I suppose it’s a little too soon to ask if you would be willing to partner with me on missions. In the future, that is. Later.”_

_“After your wilderness years?” Qui-Gon smiled wryly. “A little, yes. I am sure you will find satisfaction in working with other mission partners. The Council will assign you a few team or pair missions after your first spate of solo runs, so you’ll have some experience working with other partners. And—I fear you might be rather optimistic to think I will return to the field.”_

_Obi-Wan tilted his head, and pinned him with an intense look. “I don’t think so,” he said—firmly, quietly, with utter conviction. “I think in a year you’ll be back up on your feet, Master Jinn, and no one will be able to stand in your way.”_

_Qui-Gon swallowed. “Your faith in your old Master is compelling, Knight Kenobi.”_

_“You’re not old,” Obi-Wan refuted instantly. But then his voice softened, “and my faith in you is just as it always has been.”_

_Qui-Gon felt momentarily so overcome that he had to glance away and clear his throat. “Then I will endeavour not to disappoint. But, Obi-Wan, you must promise me something in turn.”_

_“Anything, Master.”_

_“Qui-Gon,” he corrected automatically._

_Obi-Wan ducked his head with a shy smile. “Qui-Gon.”_

_“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Padawan. Keep yourself alive and whole. Remember to eat, even if it’s one of those awful ration bars. Remember to drink something. Watch your back. That is the last instruction I give you as your Master, and I expect you to follow it accordingly.”_

_Obi-Wan bowed in his seat. “Yes, Master.”_

_It should have sounded teasing, the way Obi-Wan had always said it when Qui-Gon bade him to remember something he needed no reminding to do after all. Instead it was solemn as his Knighting ceremony had been, and as final as a farewell._

_Then he was gone. Qui-Gon stared at the door for a long moment, feeling like he’d missed something—like something still hovered between them, unfinished. Qui-Gon had no idea what it was, but he was suddenly filled with a great, unfathomable sadness._

_Saying goodbye to a Padawan upon Knighthood was a kind of loss, after all. But it was a loss mixed with joy, outweighed by pride in the student’s accomplishment. And Qui-Gon was proud, and overjoyed._

_So then why did it feel like this? Like something cut short, like a melody denied its final resolution?_

_Qui-Gon stared up at the ceiling, and felt a tear slide back into his hair._ And write to me, _he should have said._ Write to me often, and keep telling me you’re alive. 

* * *

Half an hour later, elbows deep in the latest news from Vaurvalla and the most recent economic reports from the sector, Qui-Gon had to admit that the situation looked dire. A handful of correspondents from prominent Republic news agencies (Alderaani and D’Qari, primarily) were reporting an insurgency. Reports indicated that the invading force had been bankrolled by a private company—Karraden Cybernetics, most likely a Trade Federation subsidiary. 

Vaurvalla’s President Shamadi, a progressive candidate, had refused to sign over mining rights to Karraden; she’d been assassinated less than a week ago. 

Qui-Gon eyed the news-stream with an increasingly pained expression. General Karthas had seized control of the government structures; Karthas was aggressively isolationist, paranoid, and had all the makings of a dictator. Tatn’di, Shamadi’s Second, had never inspired much confidence in the public, and was struggling to do so now. Half the other prominent politicians had in some way already shown themselves to be horribly unreliable in support of the Vaurvallan people. 

Really, it was no wonder the Vaurvallans were on the cusp of a revolution. But with so many factions in play, it also meant that a Jedi Ambassador would likely have no safe place to turn, if the fragile peace were to shatter. 

Judging by the message Qui-Gon had received, the peace had collapsed—and Obi-Wan was now in very real danger. 

Qui-Gon’s comm chirped, and he flicked it on without looking. “Jinn.”

“We’ve run into some difficulties,” Mace said immediately. “Someone knocked out system communications—subspace and holotransmitter relays are compromised. We’re unable to raise any backup we might have in the system. Still working on sector communications.” 

Qui-Gon swore softly. “Do we have anything on Karraden? Something that could generate enough attention and force them to lay low for a bit, withdraw from Vaurvalla?” 

“No.” Mace sounded regretful. “It’s a small and relatively new subsidiary, and whatever we have on the parent companies, it won’t be enough.” 

“What about the mercenaries they hired?” 

“Local, from our last reports: disaffected soldiers, ex-cons, Vaurvallan and from neighbouring planets and moons. It’s not looking good.” 

“No, it’s not,” Qui-Gon sighed. “Force, Mace, is there nothing we can do?” 

“Not yet,” said Mace. He sounded sympathetic, at least, as he signed off. 

But Mace had Knighted Depa years ago, and he must have understood at least part of what Qui-Gon was feeling. _Part,_ Qui-Gon stressed, but certainly not all. 

Like hells he was going to sit back and wait while his Obi-Wan slipped farther and farther out of reach. He needed a plan. 

He needed—oh.

He needed mid-meal, and a certain well-connected Besalisk. 

Qui-Gon reached for his comm again with a quiet groan and put in the contact code from memory. 

The first thing Qui-Gon heard from the other end was the noise of a very boisterous group of Initiates. 

“Master Terrelinar,” he tried, after a few seconds. 

[Jinn,] the Wookiee crèchemaster rumbled, [stealing your cub away for mid-meal again? You know that food isn’t good for him. Or you, for that matter.] 

Qui-Gon grinned despite himself at the familiar teasing. “We’ll save you some pastries,” he promised. 

The crèchemaster’s low growl carried a note of amusement and an undertone of _‘you’d bloody well better.’_

[I’ll send Ani to your quarters after this lesson ends. We’ve run a bit long on ‘saber training today. He should be with you in thirty minutes.] 

“Thank you, Terrelinar.” 

[Better be Dex’s linberry tarts,] Terrelinar warned him, before a happy child’s scream cut through the speakers. 

Half an hour. He had just enough time to make himself look presentable. Qui-Gon typed out a quick message— _Taking Ani for mid-meal, Dex’s in 45m_ —picked himself up out of his chair and made his way to the ‘fresher. 

* * *

When Anakin met him the boy was still bouncing and happy. Today’s ‘saber training had been what the Initiates cheerfully referred to as ‘tumbling class.' Officially, the Combat Master had been teaching them to fall. Ani regaled him with the Temple gossip that filtered down to the crèche, always far more wild and interesting than the rumours circulating among Knights and Masters. (Councilors, on the other hand, were just as bad as children.) 

Qui-Gon listened, but his mind kept circling back to Obi-Wan’s message, to the situation on Vaurvalla. Anakin must have noticed his distraction, but the boy didn’t seem to mind it. 

He certainly didn’t mind it when Shmi greeted them practically at the door to Dex’s diner. Qui-Gon wrenched his wandering thoughts back long enough to greet her and Dex, and scan the interior. There were few customers this time of day—good enough for a private conversation. Qui-Gon chivvied Shmi and Anakin to a booth a ways down from the door, and followed Dex to the counter. 

Dex hovered near the counter as he started on their orders. With a few strips of rak meat and some chicken sizzling on the griddle, he turned back towards Qui-Gon with a rag in hand, as if the counter needed wiping. 

“I need a favour,” Qui-Gon said quietly. 

The Besalisk glanced up at him. “Sounds serious. Am I gonna regret knowing you, Jinn?” 

Qui-Gon tried to smile, but it must have looked more like a grimace. “Maybe not for much longer.”

Dex turned solemn as stone, and started wiping at the counter. “I’m listening.” 

“I need a ship, and whatever you can tell me about the situation on Vaurvalla.”

Dex gave him an appraising look. “You’re still looking a bit frayed about the edges. Why would you want to go and take yourself to a place like that?” 

Qui-Gon felt his jaw clench, and made an effort to relax. “Obi-Wan is there,” he said softly. 

The Besalisk stilled. He studied Qui-Gon very closely for a moment, then gave vent to an expressive, if whispered, litany. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few hours. I’ll have you on your way tomorrow, latest.”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. That was rather fast. 

Dex sighed. “Had a shipment going that way. Karraden’s been harassing the population for about a month.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “Thank you, Dex.” 

When he made his way back to the booth, Shmi and Anakin both gave him nearly identical looks of concern. 

“Is something wrong?” 

Qui-Gon hesitated, taking the time to sit down and settle in across from Shmi. “Obi-Wan’s mission took an unexpected turn.” 

Anakin was instantly on high alert. “Is he okay?” 

Shmi hushed him softly. 

“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon admitted. “The Council can’t contact him. There’s a problem with communications.” 

Shmi was watching him intently. “You’re going after him.” 

“Yes.” 

“Is this a decision approved by the Healers?” 

Qui-Gon dipped his head, and smiled wryly. “The Order can do nothing without confirmation; then they need permission to act from the Senate. I am, for all intents and purposes, still a civilian.” 

“Because you were injured.” 

He did not refute that. He simply met Shmi’s gaze levelly and let that speak for him. 

She nodded. “I understand. Be careful.” 

“Always, Lady Skywalker.”

Anakin and Shmi were a bit subdued for the rest of their mid-meal, but didn’t seem to mind Qui-Gon’s silence. In the end, he mostly listened to them to distract himself from worrying about Obi-Wan. Their weekly meeting was thus shorter than usual. Qui-Gon moved to pay the bill, but Dex shook his head and waved him off. 

“Next week, Feemor will take him out for mid-meal or late-meal,” Qui-Gon told Shmi. “I’ll give him your comm code, if that’s all right.” 

“Thank you, Qui-Gon. How long will you be away, do you think?” 

“I really don’t know. I don’t even know how I’ll find him when I get there.” Qui-Gon frowned up at the traffic. “He’ll be with the resistance cells, I’m sure. We’d always end up with them, one way or the other. But I’ll find him.”

“You will,” Shmi said, and the strength of her conviction warmed him, even if he was not completely convinced himself. “May the Force be with you, Master Jedi.” 

Qui-Gon bowed to her as well as he was able, and as deeply as he would to any other Master. 

He had noticed, in recent months, that Shmi’s Force presence had changed a great deal since she’d first arrived. Shmi still didn’t exactly like the noise of the city. But now she occupied a great deal more space in his Force sense, and far more solidly. She was sure of herself in a way she had not been when first introduced to all this noise. Anakin had taught her some of the things he’d learned in the crèche, too; those lessons had included shielding from the surrounding noise of billions of sentients. The moment she’d mastered the shielding, Qui-Gon had seen the tension practically melt from her shoulders. 

He was even more pleased to see that the more comfortable Shmi felt in her new home, the more her latent Force abilities became manifest. It convinced him, at least, that the Council’s insistence on the age cut-limit was an arbitrary rule. Qui-Gon had been trapped in-Temple for a year, and (out of sheer boredom, as he would say) he’d been laying the groundwork to start a serious Temple-wide debate about overturning the thing. 

Qui-Gon wondered if he’d have to leave that task to someone else, too. Dooku, perhaps. The man needed a hobby aside from ancient Sith relics. 

A small hand tugged at his sleeve. “Yes, Ani?” 

“Can we see the gardens before you take me back to the crèche?” Anakin asked. “Clawmouse Clan hasn’t had a swimming lesson in a while, so we haven’t really gone back to the Room.”

“Of course we can,” Qui-Gon agreed easily, helping Anakin into the aircab headed back to the Temple. 

* * *

Anakin was surprisingly calm and not very fidgety all the way back to the Temple, and on their walk to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Once there, he grabbed Qui-Gon’s hand and tugged him down one of the shadier, less traveled walks. 

“When are you leaving?” he asked. 

“That depends on Dex,” Qui-Gon said. “Tomorrow, I think, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Should you be going, though? If you haven’t passed the tests yet?”

Qui-Gon grinned down at the boy indulgently. “ _An_ akin,” he rumbled, “are you also a Healer?”

Anakin only looked back up at him with serious eyes. Qui-Gon wondered momentarily if that seriousness came from Shmi, or if it was something the boy had learned from Obi-Wan. 

“Please be careful, Mr. Qui-Gon, sir. Obi-Wan warned me that if you tried to push yourself too hard and too fast I was supposed to tell you that he would be very cross with you when he got back. I’m not sure what he meant, though.” 

Qui-Gon chuckled, despite the weight that settled over his heart. “He said he was going to be angry with me. But since I am going to bring him home, under the circumstances I think we should make an exception, don’t you?” 

Anakin chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “Does that mean Obi-Wan is in trouble?” 

The iron band around Qui-Gon’s heart squeezed. “It’s probably nothing he can’t handle. I’m just going after him to make sure he comes home.” 

“He might not like that.” 

“No,” Qui-Gon agreed, “probably not. But I don’t like the thought of him in trouble.”

The boy seemed puzzled at that, but said nothing, perhaps unsure how to phrase it. 

“What is it?” Qui-Gon asked him gently. 

“We-ell,” Anakin dragged out, still hesitant, “I thought—you know. I thought Knights were supposed to be able to handle trouble on their own.”

“Most trouble,” Qui-Gon corrected. “No one can handle all their problems without help, Anakin.” 

“Oh.” Anakin scuffed a foot at the garden path. “Jedi can ask for help?”

“Can, and should. We are taught, and trained, for many years, to be able to handle whatever comes at us. It can be… difficult, sometimes, to ask,” Qui-Gon admitted. “And maybe a little frightening. But it should still be encouraged.”

The boy frowned. “Jedi can get scared, too?” 

“Same as anyone else.” 

“Are you scared?”

“Scared for Obi-Wan?” His heart fluttered, and started to beat faster at the mere thought. Qui-Gon closed his eyes and breathed in deep. “Yes. Very. But I’m going to get him out of there.”

It was a solemn promise, and Anakin took it as such, nodding seriously. 

A few steps later, Anakin suddenly snuck a sly look up at the Jedi Master. “Does that mean we get to be cross with him for scaring us?” 

At that, Qui-Gon couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose we’ll see about that when he gets back.”

They spent a little more time in the gardens, basking in the peace and quiet of growing things. Anakin connected easily with the Living Force, and Qui-Gon enjoyed guiding him through all the whispers of living things in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. After about an hour of this exploration, Qui-Gon walked Anakin back to the crèche. 

Qui-Gon handed off the promised package of linberry tarts to Terrelinar, and let Anakin hug him tight-tight about the waist before he took his leave. 

“Good luck! Remember to bring back his ‘saber,” Anakin called after him, and vanished into the crèche common-room. 

Qui-Gon’s breath caught sharply in his chest, and he couldn’t take in another. Bring back Obi-Wan’s ‘saber? 

He swallowed, and closed his eyes, tried to calm his racing pulse. So far as he could tell, even without the bond active between them—but how could it be, with Obi-Wan half a galaxy away—so far as Qui-Gon _knew,_ Obi-Wan was still alive. He _had_ to be. 

Yet the very fact that Qui-Gon had received that farewell message warred with his knowledge of Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan would never, not while it was in his power, _ever_ permit that message to be sent if he weren’t truly certain he was about to die. 

The truth was, Qui-Gon did not know what to think. 

Accepting that as truth and releasing his anxieties into the Force did make it easier to breathe again. After a moment, he was even able to move his feet once more. 

Qui-Gon set off towards his quarters. He would have to see Feemor, or at least send him a message before he left. Dooku was still out on assignment. Qui-Gon himself had no more appointments for another week; his elective class had just finished last week. Over all, it was almost suspiciously convenient: he could vanish for weeks and no one would notice until it was too late. 

Still, Qui-Gon wanted to be sure no one called him in for any meetings or inconvenient appointments. Slicing into the Temple administrative system was embarrassingly easy. It was also easy to request a sabbatical for a Master not currently listed on any mission roster, or even on medical leave. Qui-Gon almost pitied the tech who would catch the full brunt of Mace’s fury when he found out. _Almost._

Qui-Gon submitted a request for leave time, backdated it three days, approved it, and stared at the commset in mild disbelief. That was _far_ too easy. He’d have to ask someone to look into it. (Later, of course.) 

All there was left to do now was pack, send off a message to Feemor, and wait for any word from Dex. 

* * *

_The life of a diplomat dispatched to the Mid or Outer Rim was a dangerous one for many reasons. Chief among them was the lack of information: any Jedi who was assigned such a mission was expected to be able to assess the situation on the fly. There was always a danger of getting something very wrong; equally, there was a danger of simply not being able to account for the unknown._

_Like a riot. Like fools carrying primitive weapons, shooting into the crowd. They’d probably never even meant to hit a Jedi._

_Jedi who were there to help, to mediate. To encourage negotiations between the local chapter of the Sentient Rights Organization and the local government; to hammer out a set of laws that would safeguard workers._

_Qui-Gon was doing precious little of that, just now._

The Force is my ally, _he thought, eyes on his Padawan’s pale face,_ but time is not on my side. 

_The capabilities of the local med centre were rather limited. They’d stabilised Obi-Wan’s vitals, and done their best to clean and stitch the wound—what an awful weapon, a slugthrower—but “only time will tell, Master Jedi,” said the healer. They didn’t know if Obi-Wan would make it through the night._

_“Of course he will,” Qui-Gon whispered. The words gave him no comfort._

_So for long as Obi-Wan had been in surgery, Qui-Gon had done what he could to clean up the mess in the city hall. He quelled the pointless circular arguments. He patiently maneuvered them back to the issues at hand, and bit back harsh words for the petty and foolish civil “servants” who squabbled over slights and offenses when there were bodies in the streets._

_It would be improper, after all, if a Jedi were to be demonstrably_ biased _in favour of the protestors._

_Never mind that the demonstration in the streets could have been avoided; never mind that slugthrowers were illegal weaponry and should never have been permitted near the plaza. Never mind that Qui-Gon’s mission partner and Padawan had been bleeding out in his arms not an hour ago, and at a minimum twenty protestors had already died, and injury reports were still streaming in._

_The Order and the Senate could not afford a_ diplomatic incident, _could not afford to show bias simply because one Master Jinn couldn’t keep his temper while his Padawan fought to survive._

_Was it any wonder he’d turned on his heel and swept back to the med centre the moment Obi-Wan was released from the operating room and moved to recovery?_

_Exhausted, Qui-Gon sank back into the hard plasteel chair and slouched until his chin rested on his chest. He couldn’t sleep, though the medics encouraged him to. He couldn’t quiet his mind—not when it already hung in paralysed silence._

_Qui-Gon breathed. The air carried the sterile scent of the ward and the smell of sharp sweat and suffering._

_He forced himself to find something to focus on. The tiles were too monotone—crisp, white, even little rectangles. Eventually he settled on the quilt that had been laid over his Padawan’s feet. A donation, as he understood it, from the old ladies who lived as a contained community. They called themselves orphans, having lost their entire families to one disaster or another._

_There was a story in this quilt, Qui-Gon could almost follow it. A story of love and heartbreak, and a stubborn hope steadily holding the weave together._

_“M—master…”_

_Qui-Gon glanced up. Then surged forward, heartened by his Padawan’s half-open eyes. He looked drugged to the very gills, but by the Force, Obi-Wan was still with him and Qui-Gon cared for nothing else—nothing, so long as Obi-Wan stayed with him._

_Qui-Gon caught a flailing hand and tucked it back against his Padawan’s side. Obi-Wan frowned, brow furrowing in confusion, but Qui-Gon smoothed it out with a gentle thumb. “There you are, my Padawan,” he said, nearly overcome._

_Qui-Gon caught Obi-Wan’s hand again as Obi-Wan reached for him, felt his fingers curl around his own in a loose grip. That brought him low, that Obi-Wan would continue to reach for him even like this. Qui-Gon, supporting himself up on one elbow, leaned forward to press his lips to Obi-Wan’s brow._

_“Padawan,” he whispered into Obi-Wan's hair, eyes squeezed shut._

_“M’here,” Obi-Wan replied, his voice a dry ruin._

_There were ice chips in the small cold store that functioned as a bedside table. He should get them out. He should be the one caring for his Padawan now, not the other way around._

_Somehow, despite the fact that he’d been the one whose life was in peril, Obi-Wan managed to sound reassuring. Qui-Gon was nearly ashamed of just how much he needed the comfort._

_Nothing in his life had ever come closer to his very soul. Xan’s loss had undone him; without Obi-Wan, there would be nothing left._

* * *

The morning air was brisk, the sky just touched with the pink of sunrise when Qui-Gon stepped out onto the landing pad to wait for an aircab. He’d passed a fitful night, restlessly rising from his bed or his couch to check and re-check his kit; this was his first mission in over a year, after all: he was out of practice. Qui-Gon had barely slept, but he didn’t feel tired—just drifting along on some unlimited hum of energy.

“Going somewhere, Master Jinn?”

Mace had caught his trick with the leave request, then. That really wasn’t much of a surprise.

“You can’t send backup without the Senate’s approval,” Qui-Gon said without preamble, not even bothering with explanations or a defence. “But I can go.”

“You’re not even field qualified yet!”

Mace detached himself from the shaded side of the landing pad, just inside Temple walls, and came up alongside Qui-Gon. He had a quiet step, and he was shielding, but Qui-Gon still didn’t know how he could have missed the man’s presence in the hangar. That gave him a twinge of discomfort.

He ignored it.

“That makes me, functionally, a civilian,” Qui-Gon replied, with a tone so reasonable he almost fooled himself.

Mace looked quietly furious. “If I lose two of my best Knights on this harebrained venture—”

“One Knight,” Qui-Gon reminded him. “I’m not qualified.”

Mace’s expression twisted. “Circular logic.”

“Only somewhat.”

“Qui-Gon, if there’s even a _chance_ you won’t pass your field certification, you’re the very last person I should send.”

That was all too true. Qui-Gon understood, objectively, that what he was about to do was ill-advised, and stupid only at best. He’d missed Mace sneaking up on him for the first time in years. He could hold his own in a sparring match with the Combat Master, but barely. He wasn’t wiping floors with anybody, anymore.

It wasn’t as though the last year or so hadn’t been instructive on how to deal with this change. Objectively, Qui-Gon also knew that he wasn’t useless the moment he couldn’t hold his own with a ‘saber in hand; it was just a bit difficult to believe it, sometimes. From that arose a nagging idea, that this ‘rescue mission’ of his was just the fantasy of a crippled man scrabbling at a last lifeline. Qui-Gon ignored the thought out of the stubborn understanding that any doubt, in his situation, would prove fatal, but he also ignored it at his peril. He wouldn’t be any good to anybody dead, especially not to Obi-Wan. He couldn’t afford to overestimate his limits here.

But by now it was far too late to reconsider. The aircar was already making its final approach.

Qui-Gon turned back to Mace with a raised eyebrow. “Think you can stop me?”

Mace’s expression twisted. “Get out of my sight, Old Man. And don’t come back without him.”

Slightly bewildered at having been let go so easily, Qui-Gon bowed, murmured “Force be with you,” and clambered into the aircar.

_Old Man,_ Qui-Gon thought, glancing back to see Mace watching his departure. He truly felt like it.

* * *

Dex had commed him a set of coordinates that morning—one of the smaller, more discreet stations a regular citizen could dock their shuttle at, for just a few credits more. Compared to most Coruscant real estate, it was actually quite affordable. Certainly it would be an acceptable expense for Dex’s contacts to stow some… less-than-legal cargo in their hold. 

Dex met him at the archway that opened on a private bank with room for some five ships. Only three were docked. 

“Don’t wander off, I’ll see if they’re still loading,” Dex warned him. He pressed a cup of caff into his hands and left him at the entrance. 

_Probably doesn’t want me to see the cargo,_ Qui-Gon figured, unoffended. He sat down on a crate.

Qui-Gon stared blearily into the cup of caff. It was good caff, at least. Qui-Gon thought about the sealed box of tea in his bag; he didn’t usually bring frivolous items with him on assignments, but he’d thought Obi-Wan might like to have it.

It disturbed him that he was assuming Obi-Wan was still alive, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he would have known if that were no longer the case. He had so many doubts cluttering up his thoughts—what if Obi-Wan was dead, what if this was all false hope, this was likely one of the stupidest decisions of Qui-Gon’s life and he was no use to Obi-Wan if he failed.

His hands were shaking.

Dex reappeared in the entryway and waved him over. Qui-Gon rose without even thinking about it and walked forward.

The hangar was mostly empty. Only one of the three docked shuttles showed any signs of life. The ship looked like something from the Corellian shipyards: small and hardy, and mostly built for short delivery runs. A pair of hard-looking spacers were waiting for them, one lounging against the hatch and the other perched on the loading ramp itself, dangling his legs off the edge.

“Hey, Dex, you didn’t say anything about taking a Jedi!” he shouted in protest.

Qui-Gon didn’t jump, but he certainly bristled at having been identified so damned quickly. _Corellians…_ They always knew a Jedi at a glance.

“He’s a civilian,” Dex snapped back, “see the clothes?”

Qui-Gon saw the woman behind the captain roll her eyes dramatically and bit back a smile.

“You’re gonna have to hop a blockade, so you’re gonna want good people with you,” Dex told him.

Qui-Gon eyed the two spacers, playing at unimpressed. “And these are the best you could find.”

It was the right answer, of course: the captain laughed. “Name’s Solo. That’s my first mate, Madine. We’re dropping off a bit of cargo at a prearranged dropsite, and there’s only two escape pods, so—things could get a little bumpy. You’re probably gonna have to go with the package.”

Qui-Gon winced. “What’s the cargo? And do I want to know?”

“Well, since you are a civilian,” Captain Solo drawled. Dex shot him a look and his expression soured. “It’s weapons. There’s a resistance group, they send us coordinates for the drop when we’re in orbit and we deliver. One escape pod with the goods, one escape pod for us. You’re gonna have to rough it, Master Jedi.”

“There’s always something,” Qui-Gon grumbled, with an exaggerated fatalistic sigh.

The captain laughed, though he seemed uncomfortable. “We’ve worked out some modifications to the escape pods, so the boxes and stuff shouldn’t bounce around too much. Madine, here—she’s got a structural engineering degree.”

Solo’s second-in-command gave Qui-Gon a jaunty wave. “Even weight distribution, relatively dampened landing. It’s not perfect, but it should be safe to put a person in there. There was always the chance we might end up needing it, anyway.”

Solo nodded. “We’ll do our best to secure the cargo before the drop, but…”

Qui-Gon waved it off. “If you get shot out of the sky by the blockade, you’ll want your own escape pod, I understand. I’ll manage.”

They were taking quite a risk coming that close to the surface, but then again, they were taking a risk running through a blockade in the first place. “Thank you,” he added.

Solo stepped out off the loading ramp and swept his arm out in a grand gesture. “Welcome aboard, Master Jedi.”

“It’s Jinn,” Qui-Gon said.

“Mr. Jinn, then.” Madine dipped her head politely and waved a hand at the hold behind her. “We don’t have much room, sorry about that—just a couple bunks.”

They were certainly not much: long, hard, flat benches, uncomfortable in every way, though they’d probably be enough for Qui-Gon’s height. He nodded, unsurprised. It was a tiny shuttle; most of its space went to the escape pods and storage, not creature comforts. It was small, maneuverable, and fast, not designed for long travel but perfect for trying to get through a blockade.

The flight to Vaurvalla was twenty-six hours. Qui-Gon felt a phantom ache in his scar at the very thought.

“You’ll be manning the cockpit in shifts, I assume. Do you need me for anything?”

Madine shrugged, pushing off the ship’s hull and heading back inside, after Solo. “We’ll let you know. Whenever you’re ready,” she added, and disappeared into the dark.

Dex clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder—somehow managing not to aggravate the injury—and squeezed. “Be safe, Jinn.”

“Thank you, Dex. You didn’t have to.”

“Hey,” the Besalisk shrugged, “I’ll have a favour to call in with a Jedi later. Maybe even two.”

“Or you might not have any,” Qui-Gon said, unable to shake the morbid doubts that settled stubbornly in his bones.

“You’d better not ruin my investment, then,” Dex deadpanned. “Put a lot of effort into this one, would hate to see it go to waste.”

Qui-Gon shot him a quizzical look, but Dex was, of course, unrepentant.

“You’ll be fine. Just don’t try to negotiate with anyone. Get in, find out what’s going on, get a good vid, steal a ship and throw it to the nearest news-stream,” Dex said.

It was almost unexpectedly sound advice; solid, and practical.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Qui-Gon agreed, and let the Besalisk hug him (gingerly).

* * *

_Asmeru was a beautiful world, marbled blue and green and white against the velvet darkness of space. After their last mission, Qui-Gon had commed Mace and asked him for some recovery time. A light mission would do, even a geological survey on some Ag-world. That way they would still be on the mission roster; and Obi-Wan would gain experience with missions outside of Qui-Gon’s expertise, which he needed anyway._

_He also needed time to recover, for all that Obi-Wan insisted he was perfectly well. But Qui-Gon knew that he still tired easily, that he startled at loud, sharp noises._

_A month spent working with Asmeru’s Ag-Center, reviewing contracts with local farmers and reassessing each farm’s environmental needs, seemed just the thing. It was quiet work, testing soil samples and evaluating the risk of flooding, tracking records and keeping the landowners well apprised of the situation. Most of their task was communication, in the end._

_Obi-Wan was reminded of their mission to accompany a MedCorps team along difficult terrain in a warring territory, and assist them with a vaccination campaign. They’d run into rather less trouble than expected. The true challenge of the mission had come at the end, when the Jedi had to find ways to convince the villagers of the med-team’s good intentions, and persuade them to give the vaccination program a chance._

_“You’re right,” Qui-Gon agreed with him, “it is quite similar. Most of our missions do seem to come down to the same thing, I find. As Master Eran writes in his Philosophies, ‘the purpose of a Jedi is to teach.’”_

_Obi-Wan grinned. “A role model of yours, was he?”_

_Qui-Gon gently flicked his ear. “Brat. I could’ve done worse, you know.”_

_“Of course,” said Obi-Wan, “there’s always Master Yoda.”_

_Qui-Gon snorted sharply, surprised. “Whatever happened to respecting one's elders, hm?”_

_“I hold you in very high regard, my Master,” Obi-Wan said primly, “but must you make everything a lesson?”_

_“One endeavours to live up to the expectations of their very serious Padawan,” Qui-Gon retorted, a feeling of aching fondness in his chest._

_Obi-Wan eyed him sidelong for the subtle dig, like an offended feline._

_It was good to see Obi-Wan more relaxed. Eventually, his Padawan settled into the slow pace of Ag-world life, and stopped looking for things to keep him busy. Evenings were Qui-Gon’s favourite time of day. He would coax Obi-Wan away from the reports, lure him out of the AgCenter’s lab, and out into the fields to watch the sun set._

_On their off-days, Qui-Gon would wander further: beyond the bounds of the farmlands they tended to, up into the forest-covered mountains on the north side. They found shrines here—one devoted to a harvest god, another to perhaps a weather sprite; they stumbled upon the entrance to an ancient temple, unrecorded in their mission background._

_And they found a clear and quiet mountain stream that fed into the river below, with a perfect view of the evening sky. Qui-Gon shot his Padawan a sly look. “Do you remember Master Yoda’s meditations on the Living Force?”_

_Obi-Wan just looked resigned. “Toes in the mud again?”_

_“Exactly.”_

Like a tree growing, you must be. 

_Master Yoda had done this meditation with the younglings every year, probably for longer than Qui-Gon had been alive. Every crèchemaster who’d grown up with the same meditation lessons humoured the old troll, and pointedly overlooked the muddy footprints. Master Yoda would gather the crèchelings in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and lead the barefoot children in meditation, teaching them to sense every blade of grass, to reach down to the very roots of the trees growing in the gardens._

_Forests were far more, Qui-Gon found: a city of trees, all speaking amongst themselves; ancient trunks reciting epics, young saplings with their reedy timbre._

_Despite the longsuffering look on his face, Obi-Wan seemed happy enough to pry off his boots and socks, roll up his leggings to the knees, and wade out into the stream with his foolish Master._

_They stood in the cool rushing water, just watching the sun set over the treetops. The air was clear and beginning to catch the evening chill. Beside him, Qui-Gon sensed Obi-Wan breathe in the peace of the place and go still as the trees around him, sinking into the bed of the stream._

_Qui-Gon smiled, and did the same._

_Even in meditation, there was no way to ignore his Padawan’s blazing presence. Obi-Wan burned bright: he’d opened himself up to their surroundings far more than usual,_ reaching _for the riot of life around him. His control of the Force was finer than that of a Senior Padawan, easily a match for a junior Knight._

_The realisation brought his Master up short._ Foolish, indeed. 

_Qui-Gon had set his course by his Padawan’s light for years. It had never occurred to him to consider that, perhaps,_ he _was not ready: for Obi-Wan to take his Trials, to be promoted to Knighthood, to leave his old Master alone._

_He thought about it late into the night, hands folded over his ribs, breathing even in a grasping effort at serenity. He thought about it the next morning, when Obi-Wan’s furrowed in waking; and again when, with wry humour, Obi-Wan asked if Qui-Gon wanted to see_ this _sunrise also, to see if it would be any different from the last._

_Perhaps Qui-Gon was even more foolish than he’d first thought, because in that moment the world fell away under Obi-Wan’s gentle teasing, under that wry grin that had been etched into Qui-Gon’s very dreams._

_He had set his course by his Padawan’s light for years, and he knew he would be lost without it. But now he was floundering_ in _it, and there was no saving him._

* * *

The ship wasn’t really as small as Qui-Gon had thought, at first. Between the hold and the cockpit there was a small area that housed a shipboard ‘fresher (sonic shower only) and a tiny galley on the other side—or, at any rate, a kitchenette. The level below was a cramped hall, practically a crawl-space, where the two escape pods were housed. If this shuttle had anything like a weapons array, it would be tiny and useless and quickly run down.

Solo and Madine referred to it as a ‘jumper’ or a ‘hopper’, and mainly used it for blockade runs. It was designed to be unnoticeable. Qui-Gon could immediately tell that extensive modifications had been made to make the craft even more maneuverable in the atmosphere. Much of the ship had been stripped out—not unusual for smugglers’ vessels, but this was such a tiny vessel that it hadn’t really bought them much room, and the cargo had been stowed in one of the pods anyway, spread along the padded walls in parts and pieces. An interesting solution, certainly.

So they’d stripped out weight—in everything, from ship structure to escape pod walls. In its place (Qui-Gon was only guessing, of course, but it may as well have been a certainty) they’d swapped out the original engine block for a more powerful one and redone the hull shielding in material that faded into white noise on most scanners. It was all pretty clever, for all it probably didn’t live up to Galactic Safety Standards.

Still, the modifications seemed to have worked for them thus far; Qui-Gon learned it was their tenth drop on Vaurvalla. The situation had been tense for longer than he’d thought.

Qui-Gon hoped their luck would hold, and that no one, in the last nine cargo drops, had wisened up and grown a bit of initiative.

With twenty-six hours to their destination, Qui-Gon tried to meditate for at least the first part of the trip. He was somewhat successful, for the first four hours. He tried to rest, and drowsed fitfully on the narrow bunk. Then he rose, stretched—to a few unhappy pops from his spine and joints and a dull ache over his ribs—and ventured into the cockpit.

Solo waved acknowledgement, but he seemed engrossed in his datapad. Madine gave him a bleary look.

“I could take over, if you like,” Qui-Gon offered. “You look like you could use the sleep.”

Madine seemed about to protest, but the moment she tried to shake her head she winced and raised a hand to the back of her neck. “Nope, you’re right, this seat is awful.”

“The bunks are worse,” Qui-Gon noted as she rose to her feet and made her way out of the cramped cockpit. “May I?”

Madine looked up at him, then at his upraised hand, somewhat distrustful and uncertain, but after a long moment she gave a stiff nod. Qui-Gon didn’t touch her; he merely let his fingertips hover over stiff muscles and sent a tendril of the Force to loosen them. He’d learned it from the Healers, after a particularly bad bout of tension headaches of his own.

Madine swayed, but kept her feet. “Wow. Thanks—uh, Mister Jinn,” she said, with a smile.

Qui-Gon inclined his head slightly, and slipped into the co-pilot’s seat as she left.

“Funny, even most Corellian Jedi aren’t that free with their abilities,” Solo noted blandly.

“It’s the least I can do,” Qui-Gon said. In truth, it was almost an automatic impulse, to help wherever he could, in any small way that he might find. Obi-Wan had always done the same, natural as breathing. (Perhaps that was why they attracted revolutions, Qui-Gon mused.)

Solo snorted. “The least you can do, in return for us stuffing you into an escape pod with a whole lot of cargo we’re not even sure we can securely strap down? You could die on impact.”

Qui-Gon smiled wryly. “I would appreciate not having one more thing to worry about upon descent, but I probably won’t die. Piss off my primary Healer, certainly.”

He rubbed at the scar absently, then dropped his hand the moment he realised Solo was still watching him with that subtle sideways glance.

Solo huffed. “You know, they say it’s bad luck to have a Jedi aboard?”

“Do they,” Qui-Gon echoed. It was funny, the way superstitions clung to Force-sensitives. “I’ve heard it said it’s bad luck to be a blockade-hopping smuggler.”

Solo shot him a glare that might’ve passed for offended, if he’d been able to look any less amused. “Match point,” he conceded with good humour. “You know how to fly this thing?”

Qui-Gon bent a wry glance his way. “Enough to pick my way through,” he demurred. All the modifications on her structure notwithstanding, the jumper was a familiar-enough model. If Solo and Madine hadn’t altered her controls, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out.

Once Qui-Gon had proved his competence to the captain’s grudging satisfaction, the next few hours passed more amiably. They discussed sabacc and pod-racing, exchanged critiques of the latest Malastairian racing regulations which made it more difficult to cheat—a time-honoured racing tradition that prompted amazing feats of innovation in the past. Eventually they were joined by Madine, who slipped seamlessly into the conversation.

Madine had grown up in a family of racing engineers, it turned out: her mother had been one of the principal experts on the only Corellian team to race pods in the last two or three decades. That certainly explained the current state of the ship.

For the next few hours they switched on and off in shifts. Qui-Gon was just reflecting that his departure from the Temple, and indeed from Coruscant, had gone rather smoothly. Only twenty-six hours of hyperspace travel, too, into a world that wobbled uncomfortably between the Mid-Rim and the Expansion Region. Unspeakable luck: only a few months ago the route would have been cluttered with far more large bodies, catching the edges of several deep gravity wells. Piloting this sort of nearly straight-line path would have been utterly out of the question.

This thought—that things were going far too smoothly—had occurred to him unbidden, and promised a dire reversal of fortune. And of course, right on cue, Solo announced on the ship’s comm that they’d dropped out of hyperspace and right into a spot of trouble. Qui-Gon sighed, drained what remained of his tea, and wearily left the galley to face this new catastrophe.

Solo’s warning turned out to be quite the understatement.

Vaurvalla’s orbit was fairly cluttered with spacecraft of various size: several _Lucrehulk_ series control ships, like those Qui-Gon had seen hovering over Naboo only a year ago, and a number of odd tub-shaped freighters wove between them. As they watched, a pair of the freighters came about. They didn’t even bother hailing the little jumper—there would be no bluffing their way through this.

“You should probably be getting down to that escape pod right about now, Mister Jinn,” Solo grit out through his teeth, fingers flying over the controls to power shields and what meager weapons the little shuttle had.

The _hell_ he would.

Qui-Gon had a flash of certainty Force-borne: not one person aboard this ship was leaving the system anytime soon. They just had to survive the next three or four minutes—the rest would take care of itself.

“How well can you fly this thing?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Beg pardon, she’s my ship,” Solo replied tartly—and Qui-Gon, absurdly, was reminded of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“I’ll rephrase; can you out-fly those?” Qui-Gon pointed at an incoming fleet of viper droids. Apparently the control ships had made up their minds just as quickly.

“Aw, shit,” was the Captain’s eloquent and not particularly encouraging response.

“Let me,” Qui-Gon offered without a second thought. It must have been ages since he’d truly flown, or piloted anything even remotely like this. Swoop or pod-races were the best equivalent to what he had to do but those days were long behind him. Still, in the last year he’d logged more hours in flight sims just trying to keep up with Anakin. It wasn’t nothing.

“Just—hang on!”

Solo swerved aside sharply, and Qui-Gon clung to the captain’s seat to keep his footing, watching with clinical interest as one of the vipers were hurtling past the viewscreen. Maneuverable little thing. Computer-piloted. Could’ve killed them just by ripping through the transparisteel.

And: a nimble move like Solo’s was either luck or superhuman reflexes.

Unfortunately it also meant that several vipers now outflanked them.

“Should’ve listened to my mother,” Solo muttered, voice low and tight. “Stay in university, don’t go smuggling random Jedi—”

“Now would be a good time to drop that cargo,” Qui-Gon noted.

“We’re not even in orbit!”

“No, he’s right,” Madine broke in. “Probably. I mean, it’ll be in decaying orbit and take a bit longer to get down rather than if we dropped it in stratosphere, but it would work. _And_ still be in the drop zone they gave us.”

Solo glared at her in disbelief. “Kriffing engineers. Fine, fine!” He leaned across and firmly plunged the lever for the escape pod release.

Nothing happened.

Qui-Gon limited his response to a mild query of, “When’s the last time you checked the emergency controls?”

Solo glared at him in disbelief, but Qui-Gon only quirked an eyebrow.

“Now would be a very bad time to find out we’re going to get ourselves spaced, or maybe have our spines snapped on the way down,” Madine agreed.

“Ugh,” was Solo’s eloquent reply, but he got up and let Qui-Gon slip past him into the pilot’s seat. Qui-Gon smoothly took over the controls. “Manual override,” Solo half-shouted as he slid down the ladder. “I can get the controls on the pod from below.”

Madine’s mouth was a tight and unhappy line. “I hope we’re not going to need that second pod.”

“So do I,” Qui-Gon muttered, but his attention was already on the problem at hand. “Madine, are you strapped in?”

She darted a quick glare at him sideways. _“He’s_ not.”

Qui-Gon paused for a bare fraction of a second, and judged that Solo was in one of the escape pods—padded walls, straps within easy reach. “He’ll be fine,” he said shortly. Just in case, though, he shouted, “Evasive maneuvers,” loud enough to be heard below—and jerked the controls.

It was exhilarating, like freefall.

Qui-Gon might never have been a great pilot, but he could hold his own—and this was a smaller craft than the sort of shuttles he normally flew. It wasn’t a pod-racer, and maybe he’d do better in one of those Naboo starfighters (if only they modified those for his height—one day, he’d find out). But for now, the little jumper ducked and dove and rolled and ran circles around his pursuers. Madine clung to the controls, her jaw set and her face pale. Solo was cursing—loudly and volubly—somewhere below them.

A few of Madine’s well-aimed torpedoes took out the better part of the first volley of viper droids. Qui-Gon managed to confuse the rest into colliding with each other. The repeated success of this trick filled him with a rare, nearly childish delight.

They’d dispatched the second volley before a light blinked on the control panel to indicate the release of one of the pods. Solo reappeared moments later, looking a bit green. He stared at Qui-Gon, and swallowed hard before speaking.

“Where the hell did you learn to fly like that? Do they teach every Jedi at your Temple?”

“No,” said Qui-Gon. “Picked up some tricks from last year’s Boonta Eve champion.”

Madine spared him a glance even as she scanned the viewscreen and sensors for more incoming fighters. “What, the _kid?_ Wasn’t he, like, _ten?”_

“Well he is now,” Qui-Gon said blandly, jinking the craft aside and sending one viper droid hurtling into another yet again. Behind him, Solo swore sharply and staggered.

“Oh, well now it makes sense. Of course it feels like a child’s messing about with the controls,” the Captain bit out sourly.

“That child won more money in one deadly race than you ever saw in your life,” Madine finally snapped. “And lived to teach a Jedi! Shut your damn fool mouth and get useful _fast,_ Jain, or I swear to _little whiskered gods—_ ”

The craft _lurched._ For a horrible instant, a metallic screech filled the cabin and all the occupants’ hearts with dread. The screech quickly became a rhythmic thump, and that slowed to complete hopelessness.

Madine cleared her throat. “Primary engine failure,” she said, voice hollow. “Secondaries still with us, on standby.”

“We should probably take her down to the surface,” Qui-Gon said, eyeing Solo. “We’re almost through the net, now.”

Solo flipped the wrench in his hand, and stared at the Jedi Master. “We’re not getting out of this, are we,” he said, the time too flat to be a question.

Qui-Gon shook his head.

Solo’s grim expression cracked apart into a devil-may-care smile—more a grimace, for how little joy or humour it held. Thankfully it was only momentary.

“Better get on down to that second escape pod, then, Jedi. Madine, you too.”

“Fuck you,” his pilot shot back without hesitation.

Solo shrugged. “All right, whatever. But you, Master Jedi: you’ve got somebody down there, I reckon.”

Qui-Gon said nothing. Not that it mattered much: Solo simply seemed to take that as confirmation.

“Go, Mister Jinn. We’ll be fine.” Solo’s grin returned, this time a little softer. “Captain goes down with his ship, Master Jedi. We’ll be fine, if your Force wills it.”

Qui-Gon rose, and walked towards the Captain on suddenly unsteady feet. “Force be with you both,” he said quietly, “fair winds and clear skies take you on your journey.”

Solo gave him a crooked smile. “And I wish you luck on yours. You can release the escape pod from the inside, by the way,” he added, “there’s a lever. I get a feeling you’ll know when to use it better than we will.”

Qui-Gon thanked him, and with a last wave to Madine he quickly made his way below.

**Author's Note:**

> I ..... _maybe_ took some liberties with the prompt.


End file.
